Annie Dillard, “Heaven and Earth in Jest”
from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (1974)

How is the old
fighting tam which visited Dillard in her bed at night emblematic
of the way we experience life’s mysteries as children?

"I used to have a cat, an old fighting tam, who would jump through the open window by my
bed in the middle of the night and land on my chest. I'd half-awaken.
He'd stick his skull under my nose and purr, stinking of urine and
blood. Some nights he kneaded my bare chest with his front paws,
powerfully, arching his back, as if sharpening his claws, or pummeling
a mother for milk. And some mornings I'd wake in daylight to find my
body covered with paw prints in blood; I. looked as though I'd been
painted with roses.

" It was hot, so hot the mirror felt warm. I washed before the mirror
in a daze, my twisted summer sleep still hung about me like sea kelp.
What blood was this, and what roses? It
could have been the rose of union, the blood of murder, or the rose of
beauty bare and the blood of some unspeakable sacrifice or birth. The
sign on my body could have been an emblem or a stain, the keys to the
kingdom or the mark of Cain. I never knew. I never knew as I washed,
and the blood streaked, faded, and finally disappeared, whether I'd
purified myself or ruined the blood sign of the Passover. We wake, if
we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence....
"Seem like we're just set down here," a woman said to me recently, "and
don't nobody know why.""

What does she mean when she says she
describes Tinkers and Carvin's Creeks so:

"Theirs
is the mystery of the continuous creation and all that providence
implies: the uncertainty of vision, the horror of the fixed, the
dissolution of the present, the intricacy of beauty, the pressure of
fecundity, the elusiveness of the free, and the flawed nature of
perfection."

Describe the difference Dillard discerns
between active
and passive mystery in nature. How are the mountains different from
the stream?

"Theirs
is the one simple mystery of creation from nothing, of matter itself,
anything at all, the given. Mountains are giant, restful,absorbent.
You canheaveyour spirit into a mountain
and the mountain will keep it, folded, and not throw it back as some
creeks will. The creeks are the world with all its stimulus and beauty;
I live there. But the mountains are home."

Why does Dillard find the steerswho live in the adjacent farm gross
and pathetic?

"I sit on the downed tree and
watch the black steers slip on the creek bottom. They are all bred
beef: beef heart, beef hide, beef hocks, They're a human product like
rayon. They're like a field of shoes. They have cast-iron shanks and
tongues like foam insoles. You can't see through to their brains as you
can with other animals; they have beef fat behind their eyes, beef stew.

"I
sit on the downed tree and watch the black steers slip on the creek
bottom. They are all bred beef: beef heart, beef hide, beef hocks,
They're a human product like rayon. They're like a field of shoes. They
have cast-iron shanks and tongues like foam insoles. You can't see
through to their brains as you can with other animals; they have beef
fat behind their eyes, beef stew."

Describe the
spot to which Dillard is drawn whenever she goes walking.

"When I slide under a barbed-wire fence, cross a field, and run over a
sycamore trunk felled across the water, I'm on a little island shaped
like a tear in the middle of Tinker Creek. On one side of the creek is
a steep forested bank; the water is swift and deep on that side of the
island. On the other side is the level field I walked through next to
the steers' pasture; the water between the field and the island is
shallow and sluggish. In summer's low water, flags and bulrushes grow
along a series of shallow pools cooled by the lazy current. Water
striders patrol the surface film, crayfish hump along the silt bottom
eating filth, frogs shout and glare, and shiners and small bream hide
among roots from the sulky green heron's eye. I come to this island
every month of the year. I walk around it, stopping andstaring,
or I straddle the sycamore log over the creek, curling my legs out of
the water in winter, trying to read. Today I sit on dry grass at the
end of the island by the slower side of the creek. I'm drawn to this
spot. I come to it as to an oracle; I return to it as a man years later
will seek out the battlefield where he lost a leg or an arm."

What nightmarish scene did she witness one
day while hunting a frog?
(photo)

"At
the end of the island I noticed a small green frog. He was exactly half
in and half out of the water, looking like a schematic diagram of an
amphibian, and he didn't jump.

"He didn't jump; I crept closer. At last I knelt on theisland's, winter killed grass, lost,
dumbstruck, staring at the frog in the creek just four feet away. He
was a very small frog with wide, dull eyes. And just as I looked at
him, he slowly crumpled and began to sag. The spirit vanished from his
eyes as if snuffed. His skin emptied and drooped; his very skull seemed
to collapse and settle like a kicked tent. He was shrinking before my
eyes like a deflating football. I watched the taut, glistening skin on
his shoulders ruck, and rumple, and fall. Soon, part of his skin,
formless as a pricked balloon, lay in floating folds like bright scum
on top of the water: it was a monstrous and terrifying thing. I gaped
bewildered, appalled. An oval shadow hung in the water behind the
drained frog; then the shadow glided away. The frog skin bag started to
sink.

"I had read about the giant water hug, but never seen one.
"Giant water bug" is really the name of the creature, which is an
enormous, heavy-bodied brown bug. It eats insects, tad-poles, fish, and
frogs. Its grasping forelegs are mighty and hooked inward. It seizes a
victim with these legs, hugs it tight, and paralyzes it with enzymes
injected during a vicious bite. That one bite is the only bite it ever
takes. Through the puncture shoot the poisons that dissolve the
victim's muscles and bones and organs—all but the skin—and through it
the giant water bug sucks out the victim's body, reduced to a juice.
This event is quite common in warm fresh water. The frog I saw was
being sucked by a giant water bug. I had been kneeling on the island
grass; when the unrecognizable flap of frog skin settled on the creek
bottom, swaying, I stood up and brushed the knees of my pants. I
couldn't catch my breath."

"That it's rough out there and chancy is no
surprise. Every live thing is a survivor on a kind of extended
emergency bivouac. But at the same time we are also created. In the
Koran, Allah asks, "The heaven and the earth and all in between,thinkestthou I made themin jest?" It's a
good question. What do we think of the created universe, spanning an
unthinkable void with an unthinkable profusion of forms? Or what do we
think of nothingness, those sickening reaches of time in either
direction? If the giant water bug was not made in jest, was it then
made in earnest? Pascal uses a nice term to describe the notion of the
creator's, once having called forth the universe, turning his back to
it:DeusAbsconditus.
Is this what we think happened? Was the sense of it there, and God
absconded with it, ate it, like a wolf who disappears round the edge of
the house with the Thanksgiving turkey? "God is subtle," Einstein said,
"but not malicious." Again, Einstein said that "nature conceals her
mystery by means of her essential grandeur, not by her cunning." It
could be that God has not absconded butspread,
as our vision and understanding of the universe havespread, to a fabric of
spirit and sense so grand and subtle, so powerful in a new way, that we
can only feel blindly of its hem. In making the thick darkness a
swaddling hand for the sea, God "set bars and doors" and said,
"Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further." But have wecomeeven that far? Have we
rowed out to the thick darkness, or are we all playing pinochle in the
bottom of the boat?

"Cruelty is a mystery, and the waste of pain. But if we describe a
world to compass these things, a world that is a long, brute game, then
we bump against another mystery: the inrush of power and light, the
canary that sings on the skull. Unless all ages and races of men have
been deluded by the same mass hypnotist (who?), there seems to be such
a thing as beauty, a grace wholly gratuitous. About five years ago l
saw a mockingbird make a straight vertical descent from the roof gutter
of a four-story building. It was an act as careless and spontaneous as
the curl of an arm or the kindling of a star.

" The mockingbird took a single step into the air and dropped. His
wings were still folded against his sides as though he were singing
from a limb and not falling, accelerating thirty-two feet per second
per second, through empty air. Just a breath before he would have been
dashed to the ground, he unfurled his wings with exact, deliberate
care, revealing the broad bars of white, spread his elegant,
white-banded tail, and so floated onto the grass. I had just rounded a
corner when his insouciant step caught my eye; there was no one else in
sight. The fact of his free fall was like the old philosophical
conundrum about the tree that falls in the forest. The answer must be,I
think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or
sense them. The least we can do is try to be there."

What intrigued Dillard about the sharks
she saw in the waves off the Florida beach?

"Another time I saw another wonder: sharks off the Atlantic coast of
Florida. There is a way a wave rises above the ocean horizon, a
triangular wedge against the sky. If you stand where the ocean breaks
on a shallow beach, you see the raised water in a wave is translucent,
shot with lights. One late afternoon at low tide a hundred big sharks
passed the beach near the mouth of a tidal river in a feeding frenzy.
As each green wave rose from the churning water, it illuminated within
itself the six- or eight-foot-long bodies of twisting sharks. The
sharks disappeared as each wave rolled toward me; then a new wave would
swell above the horizon, containing in it, like scorpions in amber,
sharks that roiled and heaved. The sight held awesome wonders: power
and beauty, grace tangled ina
rapturewith violence.

"We don't know what's going on here. If these tremendous events are
random combinations of matter run amok, the yield of millions of
monkeys at millions of typewriters, then what is it in us, hammered out
of those sametypewriters,
thatthey ignite? We don't know.
Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery, like the idle,
curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf. We must somehow
take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and
describe what's going on here. Then we can at least wail the right
question into the swaddling band of darkness, or, if it comes to that,
choir the proper praise.

"At the time of Lewis and Clark, setting the prairies on fire was a
well-known signal that meant, "Come down to the water." It was an
extravagant gesture, but we can't do less. If the landscape reveals one
certainty, it is that the extravagant gesture is the very stuff of
creation. After the one extravagant gesture of creation in the first
place, the universe has continued to deal exclusively in extravagances,
flinging intricacies and colossi downaeonsof
emptiness, heaping profusions on profligacies with ever-fresh vigor.
The whole show has been on fire from the word go. I come down to the
water to cool my eyes. But everywhere I look I see fire; that which
isn't flintistinder,
and the whole world sparks and flames."

"The wind is terrific out of the west; the sun comes and goes. I can
see the shadow on the field before me deepen uniformly and spread like
a plague. Everything seems so dull I am amazed I can even distinguish
objects. And suddenly the light runs across the land like a comber, and
up the trees, and goes again in a wink: I think I've gone blind or
died. When it comes again, the light, you hold your breath, and if it
stays you forget about it until it goes again.

It's the most beautiful day of the year.

At
four o'clock the eastern sky is a dead stratus black flecked with low
white clouds. The sun in the west illuminates the ground, the
mountains, and especially the bare branches of trees, so that
everywhere silver trees cut into the black sky like a photographer's
negative of a landscape. The air and the ground are dry; the mountains
are going on and off like neon signs. Clouds slide east as if pulled
from the horizon, like a tablecloth whipped off a table. The hemlocks
by the barbed-wire fence are flinging themselves east as though their
hacks would break. Purple shadows are racing east; the wind makes me
face east, and again I feel the dizzying, drawn sensation I felt when
the creek bank reeled.

At four-thirty the sky in the east is clear; how could that big
blackness be blown? Fifteen minutes later another darkness is coming
overhead from the northwest; andit'shere.
Everything is drained of its light as if sucked. Only at the horizon do
inky black mountains give way to distant, lighted mountains—lighted not
by direct illumination but rather paled by glowing sheets of mist hung
before them. Now the blackness is in the east; every-thing is half in
shadow, half in sun, every clod, tree, mountain, and hedge. I can't see
Tinker Mountain through the line of hemlock, till it comes on like a
streetlight, ping,ex
nihilo. Its sand-stone cliffs pink and swell. Suddenly the light
goes; the cliffs recede as if pushed. The sun hits a clump of sycamores
between me and the mountains; the sycamore arms light up, andI can't see the cliffs.
They're gone. The pale network of sycamore arms, which a second ago was
transparent as a screen, is suddenly opaque, glowing with light. Now
the sycamore arms snuff out, the mountains come on, and there are the
cliffs again."

What is Dillard's
mission in Pilgrim at Tinker
Creek? How does the simple act of walking in her backyard leave
her ' breathless under the gale force of the spirit'?

"Like the bearwhowent
over the mountain, I went out to see what I could see. And, I might as
well warn you, like the bear, all that I could see was the other side
of the mountain: more of same. On a good day I might catch a glimpse of
another wooded ridge rolling under the sun like water, another bivouac.
I propose to keep here what Thoreau called "a meteorological journal of
the mind," telling some tales and describing some of the sights of this
rather tamed valley, and exploring, in fear and trembling, some of the
unmapped dim reaches and unholyfastnessesto which those tales and
sights so dizzyingly lead.

"I am no scientist. I explore the neighborhood. An infant who has just
learned to hold his head up has a frank and forth-right way of gazing
about him in bewilderment. He hasn't the faintest clue where he is, and
he aims to learn. In a couple of years, what he will have learned
instead is how to fake it: he'll have the cocksure air of a squatter
who has come to feel he owns the place. Some unwonted, taught pride
diverts us from our original intent, which is to explore the
neighborhood, view the landscape, to discover at least where it is that
we have been so startlingly set down, if we can't learn why.

"
So I think about the valley. It is my leisure as well as my work, a
game. It is a fierce game I have joined because it is being played
anyway, a game of both skill and chance, played against an unseen
adversary—the conditions of time in which the payoffs, which may
suddenly arrive in a blast of light at any moment, might as well come
to me as anyone else. I stake the time I'm grateful to have, the
energies I'm glad to direct. I risk getting stuck on the board, so to
speak, unable to move in any direction, which happens enough, God
knows; and I risk the searing, exhausting nightmares that plunder rest
and force me face down all night long in some muddy ditch seething with
hatching insects and crustaceans.

"But if I can bear the nights, the days are a pleasure. I walk out; I
see something, some event that would otherwise have been utterly missed
and lost; or something sees me, some enormous power brushes me with its
clean wing, and I resound like a beaten bell."

Paragraph: Why is it essential
for Dillard to really see what is going on in a landscape? What does
she find there? For her, what is at stake?